It was time. Past time. Sam had to leave – now.

He'd left a note for his brother on the kitchen table. Thinking that Sam was nerding it up with a study group at the library would hold Dean off for a while. One, maybe two hours.

Not a lot of time. It would be better if he could wait until tomorrow, but he couldn't take the chance. Maybe if he'd read Dad's journal last night when he'd first found it . . .

Sam took a shaky breath. He hadn't read it until this afternoon, okay, so now it was time for him to man up and just freaking leave. Truth was, his brother would be better off – safe – when Sam was gone.

Later, once he'd had time to think, he could figure out what to do next.

Pulling his duffel up onto his shoulder, he started for the front door and was jerked to a sudden halt by a familiar deep voice.

"Sam? Where you going?"

Startled, Sam spun around to face his father, standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Dad!"

"Sam." John Winchester looked at the duffel slung over his youngest son's shoulder, not missing the fact that Sam hadn't answered his question.

"What - I don't – " Sam stumbled to a halt, trying desperately to think. "What are you doing here? I thought – Wisconsin?"

"False alarm. Caleb called me off before I got too far out. So - where are you going?"

Sam's mind went completely blank. He couldn't think of a single lie his father would believe. Dropping the duffle, he ran for the front door.

John, after one startled moment, was right behind him, catching up just as Sam opened the door. John grabbed him by the back of his jacket, jerking him to a halt, then planted one big hand against the door and slammed it shut.

"What the hell is this, Sam?" he said angrily. "Another Flagstaff?"

Sam ducked and wriggled free, leaving his jacket in John's hands. Before he could escape, his father let the jacket go and grabbed Sam hard by the back of the neck. He dragged Sam to the sofa and dumped him onto it. "I thought you'd got this running away crap out of your system."

Sam dropped his eyes, breathing hard. "I'm sorry, Dad."

John's gaze grew suspicious. Sam didn't do apologies. Resentful silences, slammed doors, flat-out screaming temper tantrums, sure.

Apologies? Never.

This was no Flagstaff.

"Where were you going?" John snapped. "And where the hell is Dean?"

"Dean's got nothing to do with this!" Sam tried to get up.

John shoved him back down. "Start talking."

Sam looked into his father's face, hesitated.

"I - I found your journal."

John froze. Then in one swift ruthless movement, he yanked his son off the couch and dragged him toward the stairs.

Off-balance at first, Sam managed to get his feet under him, tried to dig in his heels, but couldn't get a grip on the worn carpet.

"Dad!"

John glanced back at him, face blank, but didn't say a word, just pulled his son inexorably onward.

Sam whimpered.

The stairs.

Sam had dreamed of this moment. John, the stairs - if he went up the stairs with his father, he was never coming back down again!

Dean would come home and Sam would be gone, just not how he'd planned. John would tell Dean that his little brother had run away and he'd have the note to prove it, written in Sam's own hand!

Yes, Dean would look for him, Sam knew that as well as he knew his own heart, but he would never think to look to their father for the answer.

Only John would know that Sam had never left, that his body lay broken and bloody on the floor of his father's closet, the evidence of his obsessive hatred on his son's lifeless body.

"NO!"

With a cry of horror, Sam flung himself at his father.

"Damn it, Sam, ouch!" John ducked and dodged, trying to both keep hold of his son and avoid his well-placed blows. "Knock it off! Damn it, stop!"

"Let – me - go!"

His terror and rage growing with each passing second, Sam kicked out again and his heavy boot caught John a lucky blow on the upper thigh.

"Ah, ow, shit, you little fucker!" Groaning, John grasped at himself. Sam wrenched himself free.

"Damn it!" Steeling himself against the pain, John reached out to grab hold of his son again, then froze.

Eyes blazing out of an ashen face, Sam held a gun pointed directly into his father's face.

For a long minute, there was no sound in the room but the ticking of the clock on the wall and the heavy breathing of the two combatants.

"I forgot I had it." Sam's laugh was jagged. "Stupid, huh? What you're planning to do to me and I still don't want to hurt you."

Slowly, slowly, John took a step back. "You are out of your damned mind."

"Just stay back."

John judged the distance between them, decided against it, for now. "Sam, we need to talk."

"No, we don't." Sam nodded to the couch. "Go sit down."

John's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move.

Sam cocked the gun. "Now!"

Warily eying him, John backed up until his legs hit the couch and dropped down onto it. "You're sick, you must be, to point a gun at me."

Sam's mouth twisted bitterly. "That's a laugh. You were planning to kill me."

Something in John's face changed and Sam's face crumpled.

The sound of the kitchen door slamming resounded through the house, startling them both.

"Hey, Dad!" Dean called out cheerfully. "You back?"

A smug smile appeared on John's face. Sam's heart sank into his shoes.

Dean, still in his work clothes, a smudge of oil high on one cheek, appeared in the kitchen doorway. He stopped dead when he saw Sam's gun.

"Dad?" he said uncertainly.

John started up from the couch. "About damned time you got here - "

"Don't move!" Sam's voice was high and breathless but the gun held firm.

Reluctantly, John sat back down. "Sam, come on. It's over."

"What's going on?" Dean's eyes tracked between them, settled on his brother. "Sam?"

"He's leaving," John broke in. "Your brother's leaving."

Dean's eyes widened. "What?"

Sam looked at Dean desperately, the gun starting to shake in his hand. "I have to."

"Sammy, why?"

"It doesn't matter why he's leaving, Dean," John interrupted again, voice harsh. "You need to get hold of this situation right now."

Dean flicked a glance at his father, then focused back on his brother. "Sammy, talk to me."

"Damn it, Dean -" John stood up.

Startled, Sam fired a shot into the floor at his father's feet.

John fell back onto the couch, his weight pushing it back a few inches, and Dean stumbled back against the kitchen door.

"Are you insane?" John rasped. "What the hell are you doing, son?"

Rage burned through Sam's fear and his hazel eyes flared dangerously.

"Don't you call me that!" he spat. "I'm not your son. Not anymore!"

"Sam, what the fuck!" Dean took a few quick steps forward.

Sam dragged his eyes from his father back to Dean, throat tightening at the pain and confusion in his older brother's eyes

The question sounded so simple. It was anything but.

"Do you think it's my fault Mom died, Dean?"

His father's face darkened. "Don't you talk about her."

"Dad, what –" Astonished, Dean gaped at John, then back at Sam. "Of course it wasn't your fault!"

"Dad thinks it's my fault!"

"That's not true," Dean protested, aghast. "I don't know where you're getting this, Sammy –"

"Just take the damned gun away from him!" John said angrily. "He won't shoot you, go over there and get the damned gun!"

"Dad, will you just be quiet!"

"Dean, do what I tell –"

"The demon told me everything!" Sam shouted into the chaos, then cringed.

It got quiet real fast.

"What?" John and Dean spoke together.

"He's been coming to me in my dreams for weeks," Sam's eyes darted nervously back and forth between the two. "He showed me what happened the night Mom died. I - " He faltered, went on. "I saw - he fed me his blood before he killed her."

"Sammy, no," Dean said, horrified.

John moved and Sam focused back on him. "Don't you move." His finger quivered on the trigger, wanting to shoot.

Shoot John, himself, just fucking end this, now.

Dean saw something of that in his brother's face.

With a great effort, he pulled himself together and spoke, drawing Sam's attention back to himself.

"I don't understand, Sammy. Why demon blood?"

"It's not just me." Sam swallowed. "He did the same thing to lots of other kids. We're his weapons, some kind of stupid evil army." He shook his head disbelievingly. "God, that sounds so crazy."

John snorted. "That's because it is crazy."

Sam flinched and Dean softened his voice, trying to calm him. "The demon is messing with you, Sammy. That's all it is."

"No, Dean," Sam said, worn through with fear and grief. "The demon blood isn't all of it. Dad – he's planning to kill me."

That statement shocked Dean even more than the demon blood. "Sam, Dad would never hurt you."

"That's what I thought." Sam looked bleakly at his father. "Then I found his journal."

John flinched, not daring to look at his eldest.

"A journal?" Dean asked, baffled.

"I found it in his truck, last night, before he left." Sam dug into his pants pocket, took out a small brown notebook and tossed it to his brother.

Dean snagged it in mid-air, looking at it curiously.

John kept his eyes on his youngest son. On the gun.

"Read the last entry," Sam said.

Dean thumbed it open and leafed through it. He read the final entry, looked at his father in disbelief. "Dad?"

John looked stonily at his lieutenant. "Dean, you have to understand. This isn't something I want to do. Sam is my son. I love him, just as much as I love you."

"Yeah, right." Sam's voice was a ragged sob. "God, I hate you for this. Why couldn't you believe in me? Why couldn't you – " He stopped, trying to collect himself. After a moment, "I have two choices. Leave, or die."

Dean stiffened. "Sam . . . "

"It's been bad for a long time, worse than you know." Sam tried to smile, failed miserably. "No matter what I do, it's never good enough. He's always watching me, waiting for – I don't even know what."

His voice was raw with pain, with the need to be believed. "I would never let myself be used by the demon, no matter what Dad thinks."

"I know you wouldn't." Dean took one step forward, then another. He was within a foot of his brother now.

"Dean, I swear I wouldn't," Sam repeated desperately.

"Sammy, stop," Dean said gently. "I know that. I raised you." He held out his hand. "Give me the gun, little brother."

Sam looked hesitantly down at the gun, then back at Dean.

Dean, the one constant in his life. The one who'd raised him, taken care of him.

Dean, whose love he'd never doubted, but who always followed their father's orders without question.

Would he stand between Sam and danger now?

John's eyes were intent on his sons, waiting for his chance.

His father thought that Dean would back him.

And maybe he would.

He knew only one thing for sure. If Dean could betray him, Sam wanted to be dead anyway.

With a shuddering sigh, he gave Dean the gun.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

If this seems familiar, that's because I am reworking "My Boys". I wanted to redo it from a non-Wincest perspective. Rest assured, there will be plenty of drama, angst, conflict and everything else that we love with our boys. Just - no nookie. Hope you enjoy.